What Color is the Sky?
by ksuzu
Summary: What color is the sky on the way to Mariachi Plaza? A young Héctor can't quite remember, after encountering a boot attached to the fiercest vision he's ever seen.
1. The Skies

_Note: Coco is super duper cute. This drabble speculates on the first meeting of my two favorite characters. Mild spoiler warning, but I've kept things quite vague._

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 **What Color is the Sky?**

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Santa Cecilia!

There's _magic_ in this place. The very air tastes of vivid colors. The town's pink and purple skies halo the blue mountains, hugging the valley and hills dotted with autumn's golden blush, leaves and marigold petals sprinkling the winding cobbled roads.

 _This_ is the spot. The inspiration hits him in his bones. He's going to write hits about this place—lyrical odes that would make him famous! As the traveling merchants said, as the wandering mariachi told him, _this town is so, so…_

A boot positions itself quite near his guitar. Héctor hurls backward, curling around his instrument as he half-somersaults into the wall of the street corner. Crisis averted, he uncurls.

It is a good boot. Sturdy, brown, and connected to a leg possessing verve and passion for life, judging by the way the boot pauses and then descends to the dusty road with something like a dancing skip.

But it's the surprised yet melodious "Pérdon" that seizes him and rattles something inside his thin artist's frame.

He looks up. Gasps,

 _"Beautiful."_

The woman's answering raised eyebrow is full of arch and antipathy. Nevertheless, Héctor blesses the way it widens two dark, soulful eyes. Automatically, his own pair travel downward.

"A street dog," she sneers as she catches his stare.

A _xolo_ , he is not. Wandering musician, yes. Though his troubadour days may be endangered, should Santa Cecilia have more stunningly picturesque visions to offer. He's heard about this town's abundant nature, the tantalizing markets and the sweet, sweet music—but _madre mía_ —no one's told him about _her_.

He's just about to pick himself up, dust off a bit, try some dash and just a pinch of rogue wit (women liked that, yes?) but the young woman is now assessing his threadbare outfit with something different than the steely look from before.

And though Héctor does not take charity from strangers, does not beg from young ladies, he is stunned to silence by the fierce softness in her voice as she rummages in her skirt and takes out the crispest peso bill he's ever seen, pressing it into his mysteriously sweating palm.

"It's enough to cover the entry fee. Perform tonight, and you might win some prize money."

As she marches off, he notes the flowered detail of her wardrobe, sturdy brown boots not included. Perhaps she is a singer as well. Perhaps he could meet her again tonight, at the festival.

Ah.

Héctor recalls that he was on his way to Mariachi Plaza. He feels a tug on his lips, as his hand sweeps the strings of his white guitar.

 _Híjole!_ Music is his path. He was about to have a change of plans and just follow _her_ to the ends of the earth. But what woman is worth _that?_

 _._

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Suzu: Héctor is crazy charming. In this piece, he's young and clearly still getting his act together. Thanks for reading this drabble, and come build the fandom!


	2. The Flags

_Note: A continuation, because the idea kept niggling. It'll prob be short drabbles, told chronologically. But since each is a standalone, this story will remain marked complete.  
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 **What Color is the Sky?**

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There's consistency, in life. She's seen Mariachi Plaza on the day of the autumn festival since she was a baby. The strung-up flags flutter overhead in the breeze, looking like cheerful waving hands the colors of the entire spectrum of the rainbow and more. Through the years—and through today—Imelda watches the sun set and the plaza slowly come to life under the constant, colorful waving hands. _Hello. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye. You've come to hear music? Oh, just buy rice? Goodbye._

The same old rhythm. Again and again and again.

"Imelda! You're the sixth act!"

Javier, the baker's boy, rushes past with a bright yellow notepad, flour on his clothes, and a giant grin on his face. He's taken the night off to help coordinate the music talent show, like the many other volunteers who are familiar faces in the crowd. Santa Cecilia's a small, lively town. Imelda's babysat nearly a quarter of her neighborhood's children.

There's consistency.

But—as she waves to passerby who wish her luck on her performance—consistency's nice, sometimes.

" _Imelda!_ "

A scallop-sleeved arm latches onto Imelda's own. "Help, I'm short some change for the spiced mangos. They're fifty whole _centavos_ more than last year!"

"Okay, let me see if—"

Juanita tugs insistently. " _Oh,_ just come with me!"

"I'm the sixth act."

"Which means at least five mariachi cancións before you," Juanita presses. "C'mon, violíns give you a headache!"

"Only Rodrigo's," she sighs, as her friend shoots her a smug winning look.

She lets herself be hauled through the now thick sea of people—full of aunts, nephews, great-grandfathers, second-cousins once removed—and stopped in front of a colorful cart where slices of mango are presented on sticks like glossy, golden jewels, peppered with sinus-tingling chili powder.

Imelda immediately figures out the price change. Most girls from school would buy mangos for fifty _pesos_ more, if the one selling them was the slick-haired, square-jawed, silver-tongued neighborhood crooner.

"Fifty _centavos_ more this year, Ernesto?"

He doesn't bat an eyelash at her tone. "Imelda! You look beautiful! Big performance tonight, eh?" Ernesto effuses, before assuring Juanita that she is equally gorgeous, ravishing, a feast for the eyes, etc. etc. Juanita lights up like a bulb and does a winning twirl while Ernesto claps appreciatively.

"Spare me," mutters Imelda, who has no time for half-assed romance when she can buy it in ten _-centavo_ novellas at the bookstore.

She plops down the original price for mango, then scans for an opening in the sea of people by which she could get back near the stage. The familiar strums of guitar and accompanying percussion are already washing over the plaza. People are beginning to dance, bunching together in thick cords of family, friends and neighbors.

She's about to muscle her way past a particularly effusive, dancing spectator when a figure with a white guitar weaves through the crowd from the other side.

His eyes light with recognition.

A split-second passes, and she looks away, pretending to not recognize him by pushing past in her haughtiest manner. All good girls know: _Street dogs will follow you to the ends of the earth, if you give them a chance._ Imelda's pro-charity, but she can't have him getting any _ideas_.

Unfortunately, he follows—past the aunts, nephews, great-grandfathers, second-cousins once removed—and stops only when he's among the throng of waiting performers. Imelda's a good girl, but she's certainly not shy. She whirls around, intending to give him a piece of her mind.

" _Stop following me_ , you—"

"Héctor."

She stops.

He's doing the stare again. But this time, it's trained on her face, like he's never quite seen anything like her before. And now that she has a good look at him under the twinkling stringed lights overhead, she admits that he's surprisingly brushed up since earlier today. The overall effect makes her realize that he's younger than expected.

"It's Héctor," he repeats, taking her hand in his surprisingly large, warm one and pumping it up and down in an effusive shake.

"Fine. Let me go, H—"

 _"H_ _é_ _ctor!"_

A flustered Javier rushes over and pushes Héctor toward the lighted stage. "Where have you been, _amigo_? _I even switched the order for you!_ Don't make my father whip me for dodging the bread stall and then screwing up this gig!"

Imelda watches with something between confusion and exasperation as Héctor winks at her in farewell, then laughs: "I won't let that happen. That's what _amigos_ do, no? They help one another!", all the while being bulldozed up the steps by the baker's boy.

"He's a little crazy," a voice tuts beside her.

Imelda turns to see her old classmate Rodrigo and the rest of his mariachi band packing up their instruments. They'd finished performing and were just waiting for the results to be announced.

"How good can a wandering musician be? I'm just glad Ernesto's not participating."

Imelda nods, but quiets all the same, eyeing the stage expectantly as she watches the street dog take a deep breath.

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	3. The Song

_Suzu: Merry Christmas! This chapter's a drabble, but we're getting places.  
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 _I'm also trying to include some Mexican history. If anything looks suspect, do be a dear and let me know._

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 **What Color is the Sky?**

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The first time she'd sung in the plaza, she had written her name down in the performance roster without a second thought. It was unlike the fourteen-year old Imelda to perform for anyone other than her closest friends, but that year, the war was over and the economy was roaring back. Her papá's illness was receding, and her mamá's heartbreak was healing. That was a year to celebrate. In her heart of hearts, there was a swelling joyous tune – bursting forth, waiting to be sung.

So Imelda sang.

That's the same reason she's here today. To sing her joy, for her family and friends, for the food on her table, for Pépita safely giving birth to kittens.

She's never been on the other end.

Starstruck, to just _listen._

Joy. A grito with such energy, she's nearly bowled over. Then, clear, unadulterated tones, radiant as the first break of spring over the mountains after a hard winter in Santa Cecilia.

This man sings with his heart in his throat, and for some reason, it isn't clogging up his vocal nodes – rather, it's ushering forth a medley she's never heard. It's almost preposterous.

"Who _is_ thi—y-you hearin' this, 'Melda?"

She sticks a finger on Rodrigo's wagging tongue, never turning her head away.

It's not the best voice she's ever heard. Nor the most brilliant instrumental. But in her heart of hearts, she hears it – the music of the people. _Alegre_ , the swelling joyous tune, bursting forth, sung out over the plaza because _to not_ would be to die, and _to live is tonight._

It stirs a longing inside to know the kind of life he—Héctor— has led. She wants to taste a vestige of the tarred roads he wanders over; the star pieces he sleeps under. These things she'll never see, because her life is consistent and bound to this place. But his song—his song sets her aflame for new heights and depths.

So Imelda claps.

(And if she sees his head turn, after, she thinks it's because they've just called her name.)

She's up next.

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End file.
